Edith hadn’t driven far. Two hundred miles, maybe three. The old speakers rattled with a Drake album. It was nice to be in the flow of a long drive, weaving between cars. A system that only worked so long as everyone did their part. The wend of bodies, metal, plastic. The arterial American highway system.

She wasn’t thinking of her friends, or the life ahead of her. Only driving. A rote series of steps like washing your hair. And it came unbidden, in the second person.

Ah shit—what if you’re a girl?